


Sonder

by deathbyhumidity



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, F/M, No Dialogue, Single POV, Strangers, Trains, the whole thing is just Ben (over)thinking things over a period of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 23:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbyhumidity/pseuds/deathbyhumidity
Summary: He was jostled out of his air-watching when someone bumped into him from behind. Or maybe bump was too gentle a term, as his hand actually slid off of the plastic handrail by his head and almost smacked the cheek of the guy next to him. The person might have mumbled a sorry, but in the rattling of the car, he couldn’t be sure. His glare landed on a row of buns on the back of a brown head that slowly bobbed away from him amidst the sea of heads that swayed just as lifelessly as he felt with the motion of the train.The story of Ben’s life, in vibrant Technicolor and stereo. So successful it’s run five years straight, every night at six-thirty at the MetroRail Line 3 Theater. Standing room only.





	Sonder

*******

 

Even though the evening train ride took about an hour, Ben usually preferred to remain standing through most of it, only sliding into a seat when most of the passengers had gotten off as he got closer to his own station, towards the end of the line. He wasn’t exactly claustrophobic, but he still didn’t like the closed-in feeling of being surrounded by people half a person taller than him on all sides.

He was jostled out of his air-watching one of those evenings when someone bumped into him from behind. Or maybe bump was too gentle a term, as his hand actually slid off of the plastic handrail by his head and almost smacked the cheek of the guy next to him. He usually wouldn’t have minded—crowding on the evening train was par for the course, after all—but Hux had been even more of his particular brand of asshole all afternoon at work, and the tension headache that wrapped around his head was not done any favors by the rough contact.

The person might have mumbled a sorry, but in the rattling of the car, he couldn’t be sure. His glare would have worked better had the offender actually seen it, but the only thing it landed on was a row of buns on the back of a brown head that slowly bobbed away from him amidst the sea of heads that swayed just as lifelessly as he felt with the motion of the train.

The story of Ben’s life, in vibrant Technicolor and stereo. So successful it’s run five years straight, every night at six-thirty at the MetroRail Line 3 Theater. Standing room only.

He wondered what the point was in having three hair buns. Even across the distance, he could see how messy it was, and not the deliberate kind of messy that the college kids seemed to favor these days—which probably took half of their mornings to prepare, along with half of their money in hair products—just _why?_ —but the kind that had been put up in a hurry very early in the morning and never had a comb touch it again the rest of the day. Why make something so uselessly elaborate?

His mother used to have her hair done up in intricate braids—still did, now that he thought about it—but then she’d had stylists do it for her, and her public life—the very life he’d spurned—necessitated the flawless façade. When he was little, he thought it made her look like those princesses in cartoons and picture books, only she was real and more beautiful than any of them.

Simpler, more innocent times, those were.  

When was the last time he called her?

The vice around his head squeezed tighter.

 

*******

 

One thing he’d learned in the years he’d been taking the train was there were people who would not hesitate to use physical force to defend what they felt was their due space, no matter how crowded it got. Usually it was women, probably because it was easier for them to get away with it. He’d seen—and been the recipient of—elbows swung hard against ribs and handbags and umbrella handles smacked against arms. It didn’t even require a lot of fuss, and most of the time it seemed very casual and instinctive, like brushing dust off of your shoulder or waving an insect away.

So even though it was hardly a racket, it was hard to miss the grumblings of the angular old lady seated a few feet away from him. From what he could make of her muttering, the person next to her had fallen asleep on her shoulder, and she did not appreciate the contact, nor the apologies the transgressor tried to give.

Somehow he wasn’t surprised to see that it was the girl with the buns from a few days ago.

Now that he could see it, her face seemed as much of a mess as her hair—it lazily came to him just how uncharitable the thought was, but there was no lie in it—with the dark circles under her eyes and the greyish pallor of her cheeks. She didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup, but she could probably have done with a few swipes of lip balm on her chapped lips.

As her eyelids drooped closed again, he wondered just what it was she did all day that made her this much of a zombie at barely seven at night. She looked young, too. People her age were usually so annoyingly _on_ at this hour, ready to wash the workday away with some evening entertainment with friends.

Not that he’d known much about that kind of thing. He’d been too busy climbing his way up the work totem pole back then, so desperate to prove himself, and he’d neither had the time nor the inclination for socializing.

And not much has changed since then, really.

When the old lady began mouthing off again, he looked away.

 

*******

 

It was impossible to look away a few days later, however, from the spectacle he was sure was about to unfold.

This time Zombie Buns was standing, one hand gripping the bright orange handrail overhead, the other propped against her lumpy old backpack in front of her and wrapped around a disposable cup. She was carefully working the lid off with her teeth as her fingers awkwardly held one end of it tight. The girl was actually trying to drink whatever was in that cup in the swaying train with people on all sides of her. He wondered which of them would be her victim this time.

He narrowed his eyes. Any second now…

When it did happen, he didn’t know whether to laugh or facepalm. The solid bits that clung to the man’s shirt made it clear that it was, in fact, not a drink, but some kind of chunky soup. And the man’s loud invectives made it even clearer that it had been _very hot_ chunky soup.

Even though what she’d done was clearly stupid and clearly against the rules, he found himself feeling bad for her as she once again heaped apologies on her irate victim and tried to wipe away the mess with her bare arm. But she must have been desperately hungry if she’d thought it worth the risk to ignore the very conspicuous no-eating-no-drinking signs.

Her cheeks were red, and her downturned eyes were full of remorse. And what he thought looked like sadness through the rest of the ride as she looked at her uneaten soup in its dented cup.

Why was she so tired? Why was she so hungry?

He had the insane urge to stand guard beside this strange, funny girl so she could eat in peace.

_Insane._

 

*******

 

He couldn’t help smiling to himself days later when he saw her again, as it seemed she’d wised up a bit. This time she pinched bites of something from an outer pocket on her backpack and discreetly popped them in her mouth and chewed… slowly, with as little visible jaw movement as possible. As if that smudge of cream or mayo on the corner of her lip wouldn’t make it obvious to anyone who looked that she was eating. She glanced up every now and then to check if the people around her were watching.

And then her gaze landed on him, and she saw him staring back. He could feel his eyes mirror the way hers widened.

She choked on her bite, but before either of them could look away, he motioned with a shaky hand on the corner of his own mouth. When his eyes skittered back to her for a second, she was wiping at her face with her sleeve.

His face burned, and he kept his back to her the rest of the way.

 

*******

 

Whenever he got on in the evenings, she was already there. Nodding off already, more often than not. And she stumbled off of the train bleary-eyed at Jakku, a town which was a few stations before his own stop, Mustafar. Not that he was paying particular attention. It was just hard to miss those distinctive brown buns floating past him. Anybody would have noticed. He was sure. Very sure.

She was sleeping again in her seat one evening, her messy head rolling around and smacking against the glass behind her every now and then.

An older gentleman came on, with what seemed to be his grandson in tow. The slight man wrapped an arm around the metal pole close to the door, and the other held the child close to him. The boy’s gentle chattering must have woken her up, and as soon as she saw them she shot to her feet and offered them her seat.

He wondered if he would have done the same.

The old man made the kid thank the kind lady as they shuffled to the empty seat, and she winked at the child.

Her grin lit up her grey face and made her tired eyes sparkle.

_Shit._

Maybe he just needed to get laid. How long had it been since the last casual thing? His last—his only—girlfriend was years and years ago, and he couldn’t remember Bazine, in all her symmetrical, sculpted beauty, making his heart lurch like it just did right now at the sight of a smile on a tired stranger’s face. Maybe that was why their relationship had been so short-lived. And he’d never found time for another.

Maybe the fact that his commute home was practically the only time he could unload his brain a little factored into the non-existence of his love life. As soon as he got home, he jumped right back into work—his boss’s emails didn’t do nine-to-five, no, sir. Yes, that was the only reason he was noticing everything about Hungry Zombie Buns.

He was sure. Very sure.

 

*******

 

He wasn’t eavesdropping—really, he wasn’t. But her melodious voice carried as she talked on the phone, even though she was trying to keep it low. The affection was as clear as the smile on her face as she told her mom that she was bringing her chicken and ginger congee, and that she’d be there in just a bit. She pleaded for her mom to try to get some sleep in the mean time, and to make sure to ask the nurse to prop her back up with an extra pillow.

When she hung up, her smile melted away, and her young face looked so much greyer as she sagged against the wall and looked outside at nothing.

He wanted to be that wall.

 

*******

 

Maybe he was turning into a curmudgeon at the ripe old age of thirty-three, but he couldn’t remember being as much of an ass in high school as the snickering teens before him were being. But he was certain that even if mobile phones had been around at the time, he wouldn’t have taken photos of sleeping strangers on trains just for the fun of it.

He understood just why they found the sight funny, with her head lolling and her mouth open and her hair a ratty brown nest, but it didn’t make him want to plant his size thirteen boots on their miserable skinny behinds any less.

It gratified him to see their expressions change from amusement to terror as he moved into their line of sight right in front of her, and for once he was truly glad of the combined effect of his size and the terrible scowl he’d inherited from his father and improved upon. And he didn’t stop glaring at them until they got off the train.

Little shits.

 

*******

 

Green was her favorite color. He was certain, because a lot of her shirts and sweaters were that color, and none of the faded, plain clothing looked like any kind of uniform. He was only looking, of course, because he was curious what kind of place worked a person to exhaustion like that.

Maybe she was an emergency room nurse. The image suited her. He could see her rushing about as she tried to help attend to hurting patients, flashing them her reassuring soft smile. Her hands would be gentle on him as she took his pulse, which would skyrocket at the very contact as he lay beneath her—

But she probably wasn’t a nurse, because if she was, she wouldn’t be calling her mom every now and then on her way to her. If she was, he was sure she’d have found a way to be right there at the hospital through the day, taking care of her mom herself.

His curiosity about her job went unanswered.

But green sure looked good on her.

 

*******

 

Hungry Zombie Buns was drunk, and he didn’t know how to feel about it.

And she had company with her, who looked like they only had a slightly better handle on their own tipsiness—a guy and a girl who, from how they clung to each other, seemed to be a couple. But the trio didn’t give off the feeling that she was being an unwanted third wheel. They were all obviously good friends. They kept bursting into giggles even though it seemed they thought they were being discreet in their attempts to hide just how wasted they were.

She was lamenting the fact that she’d had drinks in the first place, even though it was some friend’s birthday, and she was telling them how she couldn’t possibly visit her mom like this at the hospital.

He agreed silently that it was a bad idea.

The other girl was clearly attempting to be the voice of reason, and she scolded her boyfriend for letting someone named Poe flirt so much with their friend.

He knew a Poe. That Poe had been the popular kid in his grade, so blessed with charm, who somehow managed to be both a rebel and a people-pleaser—the first drove the girls crazy with want, and the second made the adults dote on him. Ben was old enough now to admit that his resentment of the guy was probably rooted in jealousy. He just made things work for himself so well and so naturally. Last he heard, the guy was working for his parents.

There must be something about that name that made him hate people who had it on principle.

And then the guy told his girlfriend that Rey was a big girl and can take care of herself.

 _Rey._ Her name was _Rey_.

He rolled the name around in his mind. It was perfect for her. Soft and sweet and strong all at once.

He only realized he was staring again when soft-and-sweet-and-strong _Rey_ looked right at him. And smiled a big fucking smile that turned everything inside him into goo.

He looked away from her glowing face and her eyes that sparkled like wet jewels.

Thank heavens her friends didn’t notice.

 

*******

 

He hated that he couldn’t _not_ take Hux’s call, even though he was sure it was just going to be an extension of the disagreement they’d had in the meeting earlier, where as per usual they’d both tried their best to embarrass each other in front of Director Snoke. He hated that he couldn’t have the single hour he looked forward to in the day untainted by the same crap he’d had to deal with all day, every day. He hated how he’d gotten so tangled up in work and in his boss’s machinations that he couldn’t just drop it all and move to a different company. He hated his cowardice and his uncertainty and not knowing anything other than his job. He hated that at this point, he had no one to blame but himself.

He hated how his dad was probably right, and how he just missed him and Mom, and how he found himself more and more just wanting to go home. He hated that his damn pride always got in the way. He hated that he wanted to just climb into his cold bed—in the big, empty house his grandfather left him—right this very moment and cry his eyes out.

He could feel her eyes and her ears on him, and he tried to keep his biting retorts low. Fucking Hux, the insufferable ass. When he hung up, it was with little relief, and he found he couldn’t even chance a glance at her. Her soft eyes would be his undoing, he was sure of it.

He had a fucking crush on a stranger on a train. Who was probably much too young for him. Who had absolutely no idea what kind of a shitty life he was leading, that he had no friends, that he was barely hanging on. He could never be good for her.

He hated himself so thoroughly.

 

*******

 

For two weeks, he didn’t look at her, and his success was rewarded by the heavy lump in his otherwise empty soul.

He didn’t know what it was that _did_ make him look one evening, but a man was crowding Rey against the wall, and it was clear from the expression on her face that she wasn’t comfortable with it. Later, he realized that if he’d allowed himself a few seconds more to think about it, he maybe would have seen her make butter out of the guy’s nuts. But he’d seen red instead, and without thinking he’d pushed himself through the people in front of him and then insinuated his big body between Rey and the asshole.

He could feel his whole body burning—from the primitive need to protect her, and from the closeness. And he didn’t even stop to consider if she’d be okay with either. If the guy had grunted once, things would have gotten a lot messier, he’d have made sure of it—and maybe she’d have hated him for it.

But she must have been okay with his presumption, even though he couldn’t see her face. He _wouldn’t_ look at her face. _Couldn’t_. She didn’t say anything, just stayed completely still as she stood sideways less than half a foot in front of him, clutching her backpack. He was careful not to come into contact with any part of her, both his hands on the wall on her other side, giving her as much room as he could even as he caged her in.

Inches from his nose, the smell of the hair on her temple—flower and spice, and a hint of sweat—made him clench his jaw and silently, pleadingly remind his blood that the rest of his body needed it too. And when the train lurched, as it sometimes did, he just about died when her fingers wrapped themselves around his shirt, right over his belly button.

And through the rest of the ride, she didn’t let go.

Not even as the passengers thinned.

When the train got to her stop, she gently pushed against his arm so she could get off, and her touch and her whispered thank-you stayed with him until he closed his eyes that night, and even echoed in his dreams.

 

*******

 

She wasn’t in the train for days after that, and he was sure it was because of what he’d done. His worry morphed into despondency as the days passed.

So she ended up hating him, after all. Just like everybody who came into his life.

At least things stayed consistent.

But she was there again one evening, and his heart jumped pitifully up his throat. Her female friend was with her once more, her short arm wrapped around Rey’s back. There was no laughter this time.

Her hair was down, and her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and there was no life behind the blank stare.

If he’d done that… _no._ He would rather jump on the train tracks and die than have hurt her in any way. _No._

But his eyes landed on her collar, where a black ribbon was pinned.

His tight throat made breathing suddenly difficult.

Death had taken more than just someone from her life. Death had taken the light from her eyes.

He wanted to crush her to him, to promise her that things would get easier someday. That he was certain that her mother was so very proud of her and will always be.

But he had no right. He was just a stranger on a train.

 

*******

 

The ribbon stayed on her collar for two weeks, and he was grateful for the easy kindness of strangers. They would nod at her politely in condolence when they saw it, and she would smile a little. He hoped it made her feel less alone.

Her eyes stayed shadowed, her face stayed grey, but she didn’t sleep on the train anymore. Just stared out the window.

Once, she looked at him across the distance, and held his gaze for many long minutes. Her lip trembled through it, and he wasn’t sure if it was her trying to smile or trying not to cry.

He felt like he’d known those eyes forever.

For once in his life, his selfish heart wasn’t breaking for himself. And it felt so much worse.

 

*******

 

It was a pain in the ass having to carry the model home, but he had a morning deadline and the juniors in his team had already messed up enough. Thank goodness he only had to do this tonight. He faced the wall to maximize the protection his bulk provided, but he had to keep both hands on the damn thing, which meant he could only grit his teeth and plant his feet as firmly on the shaking floor as he could and pray that the train wouldn’t lurch too much.

The fact that he couldn’t see her was what annoyed him the most.

But then he felt a hand on his arm, and when he turned to glare at whoever it was, he found soft eyes looking back and pulling him to an empty seat, and he followed her like the dog that he was.

And when she stood in front of him and his stupid model as he sat, her backpack carefully flung away—his very own guardian angel with three hair buns for halos—he tried not to stare at her chest.

And mostly succeeded.

 

*******

 

He wasn’t feeling too great, and he figured the closed-off feeling would be the better choice this one time over his certainty that if he’d stayed standing, the swaying of the train would convince what remained of his lunch from hours ago to make another appearance.

He closed his eyes and tried to master the urge to groan pitifully. He focused his mind on imagining how she’d stand guard in front of him again, and the pure silliness of it helped a little. She was somewhere on this car, and that was enough.

But he discovered it was even better when she laid her head on his shoulder, and for a few moments he thought his feverish mind had taken the fancy too far—but when he cracked his eyes open a little, there _was_ that brown head resting lightly against him, an almost-not-there contact, and it made him so ridiculously happy, the happiest he’d been in such a long time.

Which was a testament to how pathetic his life had become—but even that couldn’t take away from his nauseous bliss.

He wished he could bury his face in her flower-and-spice hair. He knew how one hundred percent weird that was, but right now, he didn’t care. No one was reading his thoughts anyway.

She fell asleep, like she used to all those days ago.

He wished the train would go on forever, just like this.

The woman was a dream, he knew, a stranger who had her own life he would likely never be part of, who likely would never be part of his own. Things just didn’t work out for him so well like that.

But he was happy, just for now, just like this.

When they were almost at her stop, he didn’t have to wake her up. The automated announcement made her blink her eyes open slowly.

She looked at him and smiled her little sleepy smile.

Her eyes were hazel.

 

*******

 

Shelova Week was coming, and he figured he might as well attend his mother’s annual Harvest party, which was held at his parents’ hangar, which he was always invited to—sometimes outright pleaded with—but which he’d declined for four years in a row now. Because things were just so much simpler that way. Because for many years it had been easier to deal with the guilt than the anger.

It didn’t help, either, that his mom always tried to introduce him to someone at these parties.

But he felt… different this time.

Maybe it was because the years had dulled the hurt. Maybe it was because of how the girl on the train poked at the lonely pockets in his heart. Maybe it was because he got to thinking of how she’d lost her mother and he still had his.

He wondered what she did for the holidays. He wondered what she’d do now that her mother was gone.

He wished he was the kind of guy that could ask a stranger out. But if there was anything that defined him, it was an anxious, awkward, tongue-tied mess when it came to soft things.

Maybe he _would_ try someday. Just not for Shelova. Having to deal with his complicated feelings towards his parents was already too much.

He looked at the back of her head across the train car as she stared out the window.

Maybe someday soon.

 

*******

 

He skipped his own office party. He usually attended it only by force of habit, an apt celebration of everything he’d worked for as an adult, where for one day in the year the poison that flowed freely was not mutual hatred but the alcohol expressly provided to forget it all. But he could never bring himself to drink as much as he thought the meaninglessness of it all warranted because he hated losing control like that, especially in front of all the vipers he’d been slithering with all these years. Not even fucking Hux drank to oblivion at these events.

Maybe this year would feel a little less empty. He found himself sheepishly looking forward to seeing his parents, even. He wondered if the whiskey he got for his dad and the opal brooch for his mom were too trite. He was sure, at least, that they’d be ecstatic to see him. Especially when all they expected to receive this year was the familiar disappointment of his absence.

It was weird being on the train this early in the afternoon, and his thoughts, as they often did, drifted in the direction of Rey. He wondered if she was having fun with her friends at their own work party right now. He wondered if her Poe would flirt with her too much again. He wondered what she was wearing.

As he got into a cab after getting off of the train, he wondered what it would be like if he’d brought a girl with him to his parents’ party. If he’d brought _her_ with him. He’d hold her hand through the short cab ride, and he’d reassure her through her nervousness. And vice versa. Mom and Dad would be so happy, he was sure. _He’d_ be so happy.

His face ached from his smile, and his heart ached with longing.  

He was far too young to be this stupidly sentimental. Over something that would never happen, no less.

It was the damned holiday, he was sure.

He took a fortifying breath before he walked through the huge double doors. As soon as he stepped in, he saw all his “uncles” and “aunties”—his parents’ friends and coworkers through all the years, none of which were blood, but all of them as good as family. There was Uncle Luke, too—now that one was actual family, and for the first time in a long time it wasn’t instant resentment that jumped into his mind at the sight of his mother’s twin.

Why had he stayed away for so long, again?

And there they were, his mom and his dad—gods, how had they aged so much when it was less than a year since they’d visited him last?

And then his mother was opening her arms and running to him, crushing him against her tiny form and bringing his face down for kisses, and his dad was patting his hair awkwardly and ducking his own head in suspicious emotion.

Why _had_ he stayed away for so long?

He had his reasons, he was sure. They would probably resurface soon, he was sure. But right now, he wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world.

Someone bumped into him from behind and jostled him from the dreamlike quality of the past few minutes.

Or did they? Because it couldn’t be anything other than a dream—that mumbled sorry in that familiar lilt, those three brown buns that bobbed into sight before that head whipped around. Those hazel eyes that shone like jewels and were as round as how his own felt as they stared back at him and made his heart stop.

And then his mother was saying—

“Rey, I don’t believe you’ve met my son, Ben.”

 

*******

 

 

 

> **SONDER:**
> 
> **_(n.)_**    the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
> 
> — _from[The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows](http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/23536922667/sonder)  
>  _

 

*******

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please do let me know if that worked for you (or if it didn’t)! Comments are delicious. :)
> 
> Here's a little bit of half-assed pencil art.
> 
>  


End file.
